Chapter 1 #2
"It's not even short!" I huff, though the protest loses effectiveness when his touch makes me press back against him instinctively. "I just have a curvy ass and thighs that—"
His hands slide back to grip said ass, squeezing with possession that makes my breath catch.
"This ass that I enjoy very much," he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest into my back. "This ass that haunts my dreams and makes me walk funny at inappropriate times."
Laughter bubbles up despite myself, bright and genuine in a way I rarely manage these days.
"Take your hard cock elsewhere, Hayes. I'm busy organizing my mug collection."
He groans like I've physically wounded him, his forehead dropping to my shoulder in defeat. But he doesn't let go or dare step back. He just holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.
I turn in his arms, having to crane my neck to meet his eyes properly. The height difference between us—my 5'5" to his 6'3"—should make me feel small, vulnerable.
Instead, it makes me feel protected, even when I know that's a dangerous illusion.
"Look at this collection," I say, gesturing at the shelves with pride I don't have to fake. "Forty-seven unique pieces from—"
"That's not a collection, Wendy." He lets go of me to crosses his arms, leaning against the counter behind us with that particular brand of cowboy swagger that shouldn't work with his firefighter build but absolutely does. "That's an addiction. An intervention-worthy hoarding situation."
I have to gasp to make an exaggerated attempt of feigning hurt, walking over to the collection to emphasize my grand beauties my gesturing with my hands from top to bottom.
"Do you know people travel the world specifically to collect mugs?" I counter, moving closer with intentional sass in my step. "There are entire communities dedicated to—"
"Mhmm." His eyes are definitely not on my face, tracking the sway of my hips with singular focus.
"You're not listening." I reach him, having to go up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck, bringing our faces close enough that I can see the amber flecks in his whiskey-brown eyes.
"Nope." His hands find my waist, thumbs brushing the skin where my top has ridden up slightly. "Not even a little bit."
I pout—an exaggerated, theatrical thing that makes his eyes darken further.
"You need to stop being so attractive," he grumbles, his accent thicker now, more Montana ranch than California firefighter. "Can't think straight when you look at me like that."
"I'm wearing normal clothes—"
"Vintage clothes," he corrects, like the distinction matters.
"And?"
His grip tightens, pulling me flush against him where I can feel exactly how affected he is through his worn jeans.
"It turns me on. Makes me want to put you on that island counter and fuck you hard and fast until you forget every reason we shouldn't."
Well…fuck…
Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the raw want in his voice that matches the ache I've been trying to ignore since he walked in. I pull him down further, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, "Then what's stopping you, cowboy?"
The growl that rumbles through his chest is pure Alpha—possessive, hungry, barely controlled.
"Morals," he grits out, though his hands are already sliding under my skirt, fingertips tracing the lace edge of my panties.
"Morals have never stopped Rookie Hayes before.
" I deliberately emphasize the nickname, knowing it'll rile him.
He hates when I remind him that I made captain before he did at our old station, that technically I outranked him even though we were in different cities, departments, and realistically environments.
His eyes narrow, jaw clenching in that way that makes the muscle tick—a tell I've memorized along with all his others.
"You're playing with fire, Chief."
"Wouldn't be the first time." I lean up, catching his bottom lip between my teeth, tugging gently while maintaining eye contact. The taste of him—coffee and mint that’s uniquely Calder—floods my senses.
When I finally released his lip, his eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide so there was hardly any brown left at all.
He looked truly unhinged, like I’d taken his mind and wrung it out.
His breathing came ragged and uneven, each inhale scraping against my cheek.
If I’d wanted to be cruel, I could have said something about how easy it was to unravel him, but I just liked watching him try to gather up the pieces of himself.
He opened his mouth, probably to say something filthy or clever, but all that came out was, “Wendy—” like my name was a prayer.
I savored the hell out of it.
I didn’t let him finish. Instead, I angled his jaw higher and pressed my lips to his pulse point, right where the stubble on his throat met the barely salty skin.
I could feel his heart thundering beneath my lips, and I smiled because I knew I’d done that.
I licked a stripe up to his ear and bit the lobe, whispering, “Still think you’re in charge, Hayes? ”
His hands seized my hips, fingers digging in. I could feel his cock, hot and insistent against my belly, and I loved knowing how close he was to snapping.
“Jesus, Wendy,” he managed, voice strangled. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
“Not before breakfast,” I said, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his mouth. This time, he kissed back like he was trying to memorize me, tongue hungry and hands sliding down to cup my bare thighs. I let him take, let him devour, and when he finally broke away he looked half-wrecked.
We stared at each other, both of us breathing like we’d just run a race.
The kitchen felt charged, every speck of dust and sunlight vibrating with leftover tension. I could see the war in his head — he wanted to toss me on the counter and fuck me until we both forgot our names, but the other part of him didn’t want to be the asshole who took advantage of a broken Omega.
Even if I’d been the one to start it all.
I grinned, relishing the power I had over a man who could bench-press a horse and throw a hay bale one-handed.
“What’s the matter, cowboy? Cat got your tongue?”
He didn’t answer in words.
He just groaned, tipping his head back and slapping his palm over his face like that would hide the obscene state of his desire. It didn’t. The way his body vibrated with need was proof enough.
"Well," I interrupted, stepping back and smoothing my skirt with deliberate nonchalance, "I'm in a baking mood now. So if you're not going to saddle up, I've got pies to make."
The whimper would be hilarious if I wasn't fighting my own desperate need to climb him like a tree. The bulge in his jeans is impossible to ignore, straining against the denim in a way that makes my mouth water.
"You're evil," he accuses, though his hands are already reaching for me again. "Pure, vindictive evil wrapped in vintage cotton and sexual frustration."
"Mmm." I give him a wink, already knowing he won't last five minutes watching me work in the kitchen before he breaks. It's a game we've been playing for months—this push and pull, advance and retreat, pretending we're just friends who occasionally help each other through heat and rut cycles.
Such bullshit.
We both know what this is, what it's becoming. The messy, complicated thing neither of us wants to name because naming it makes it real, and real things can be lost.
Real things can burn.
But right now, with sunlight turning his hair bronze and his scent wrapping around me like home, I let myself pretend this could last. That a packless Alpha and a traumatized Omega could somehow make sense in a world that demands conventional arrangements.
"I need to preheat the oven," I announce, moving toward the stove with extra sway in my step because I'm not above torture. "Apple pies for the ranch hands. Willa asked me to—"
"Fuck the pies," he growls, and suddenly I'm being pressed against the counter, his body caging me in as his mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes rational thought impossible. "Fuck the ranch hands. Fuck everything that isn't you coming apart in my arms."
"Such language." My voice comes out breathy, undermining any attempt at scolding. "What would the good people of Sweetwater Falls think?"
"Don't care." His teeth graze my pulse point, making me gasp. "Don't care about anything except the way you smell right now, like sunshine and want and mine."
That last word—possessive, claiming, dangerous—sends a thrill through me that I should absolutely not be feeling. We don't do possession. We don't do claiming. We're just two broken people finding comfort in each other's bodies, nothing more.
Liar.
His hands slide up my sides, calluses rough against the thin fabric of my dress, and I arch into him before I can stop myself, that familiar ache building low in my belly.
Calder's mouth trails fire along my collarbone, each kiss a promise he never quite keeps, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him growl against my skin.
"You always do this," I murmur, my voice thick with the heat pooling between us. "Tease until I'm the one begging."
"Not teasing." He lifts his head, those whiskey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Waiting. For you to say yes without the walls up."
I swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting like a desert wind—hot and unrelenting. We've danced this line for years, ever since he pulled me from that fire, his presence the only anchor in a world gone to ash.
But saying yes means risking everything, means admitting he's more than just comfort on lonely nights.
His thumb traces my bottom lip, gentle despite the storm raging in his gaze.
"Tell me to stop, Wendy. Or don't."
The challenge hangs there, heavy as the scent of him wrapping around me, and damn if my body doesn't betray me with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air seeping through the open window.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his ear.